


There is Always Light

by Firelmp



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Brother/Brother Incest, Brotherhood, Brothers, Character Death, Drugs, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family Issues, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Healthy Relationships, Holocaust, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nazi Germany, Poverty, References to Drugs, Sad, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Witch Hunts, World War I, World War II, aph states, nazis are bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24544276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firelmp/pseuds/Firelmp
Summary: No one said being an ageless anthropomorphized version of a nation was easy, not when they are at the whims of their people. but there is quiet times amongst the loud and good times amongst the bad. Through changing times, eras, and reigns,  these few select people suffer, and prevail, they have too. it is their nature
Relationships: America & Canada (Hetalia), America/Canada (Hetalia), Austria & Hungary & Prussia (Hetalia), Austria & Prussia (Hetalia), Germany & Prussia (Hetalia), Ireland/Scotland (Hetalia), Rhode Island/Hawaii (Hetalia), Virginia/Texas (Hetalia)
Kudos: 15





	1. The History of a Name

**Author's Note:**

> Scotland centric, Rome, Britannia, Ireland, Wales and England. Mid evil times. Normal AU, Character Death

Alister Kirkland needed to be more honest with himself. So the first thing he admitted to himself was that he never wanted to be an older brother. No, he never did figure himself to be that, much less the eldest brother of four -at least four- great and wonderful young men who have gone and done so much more than he ever could.

No, Alister had never fancied himself an older brother. When he was little and had been the end of the world as far as the Romans were concerned, Alister’s- Scotland's name- had been Pictland. And he had been most concerned with staying free of Roman rule.

Pictland - or rather at the time The Kingdom of Picts- had been a strong man, if young, very young, nothing more than a wee child barely at a grown man's hip. With a wild mess of braids and loose strands of fiery hair, wielding a sword that was as tall as himself, twice as heavy and entirely painted from head to toe, Pict thought himself rather fierce. A man to be trifled with. Even if he as still doted upon by the women in the villages. He had known no mother or father in all his life, he did not even know what he truly was. The men called him a good omen, the women called him the spirit of the land, the children called him a fae. He did not call himself anything. He simply let The People choose what to call him. And they had decided upon some variety of Pict -Whether it is the Pictish People, the Kingdom of Picts, Pictland or anything else. So. He simply went by Pict.- the boy knew only simple things, He knew He was Pict, and that these where his people. He knew that he healed rather quickly, that he as not the same as these people he called his or the fair folk in the other world, he was somewhere in between. And he knew he was not the only one like him. The Italian man that came to every battle, The one with the brown hair and always smelling of wine and blood, he was another like Pict. He had heated the Roman soldiers call this man Rome.

For a time Pict debated confronting this man without weapons for once, to demand answers of what he was. What they where and why they would not die of the same rules as other men. In the end, it didn’t matter. Rome found Pict anyway. Out in the woods hunting the deer there as a favor for the family Pict was staying with that moon cycle. Helping put meat in their bellies was the least the young boy could do in repayment for the shelter.

It had been a Roman sword to the neck that alerted Pict to Rome’s presence, the empire had been surprisingly stealthy.

“If you are here to kill me then do it,” Pict demanded in shaky Latin he had Pict up to better understand the other tactics.

Rome had on a surprisingly easy smirk, it hid his lust for more, well, “I do not think I will. The last time I impaled you with this sword did not seem to stick.”

Pict almost laughed, that last time had been the last battle, the near-fatal wound had healed in a day, he wasn’t even left with a scar. “No, it seems like it did not. What do you want then?”

“I want to ask if you know what we are,” Rome said simply. For all his great minds and thinkers and age the man did not know. The people called him Rome, he called himself Romulus. And all he knew was the hunger for more, and how to best hide it.

“I was to ask you the same”

Rome left after that, he built two walls, told his men that Pictland was the end of the world and left. Time marched on. Pict became Caledonia (Cal for short). Keeping his sword close at hand though he draws it less, using his hands instead for writing, for carving stories into stones, for making instead of killing. It was a long while before he met any others of his kind.

There were four this time. Really three but the woman looked to be far enough along in her pregnancy for it to be four, and two young boys. Cal had met them on the road, he had been bringing water from the well in town to his house out on the hills. He found it quieter out there, more peaceful. He would not get attached to the humans as much, it would hurt less when he outlived them.

Something about the woman was familiar, was warm. Maybe it was her knowing tired smile, or maybe it was the fact that she had the same colored hair as Cal or maybe even the half-remembered pretty face that came to Caledonia in dreams. Cal trusted her, brought her into his home, the home that he built way too big for just one person to live all alone. 

“Do you have a name young sir?” The woman asked watching her children wander and look about the little hut with a careful eye sharpened with experience, rubbing her swollen belly with one hand.

Cal squatted to poke the fire back to life with a stick, he would be a proper host and offer these people food, they must be weary after their long travels after all. “The people call me Caledonia now, some still remember me as Pict. Call me whatever you like, I am not picky.”

Cal did not see the woman frown, did not see the sadness to flash across her face, only heard the motherly tone in which she addressed him next, “You do not have a Name? A constant name that humans cannot change? Come here boy, let me look at you.”

Cal did not know what this woman was talking about Did not ever rightfully know why he did as she ordered and stood in front of her to let her cup his face and stare deep into his soul. “What do you mean-“ he was cut off by a quick hit to the nose for silence, very much like how the mothers in the village would do to their children when the children were speaking out of line.

“Your name is Alister. It means the defender of mankind. A good and noble name for the eldest brother to have.” The woman finally decides. Caledonia, Alister, never did find any words to argue.

The woman, who Alister would come to call Mother, stayed. The two boys, one, Ireland as what his people called him, Sean is the name given to him by their mother, “It means that I am a gift from God!” The young boy assured, his bright orange curls bouncing all over the place, his green-blue eyes bright.

The other child, Cymru, Dylan, was quieter more secluded then the other one, he was the youngest of the three of them, only a toddler really but growing quickly, every curious, his brown hair as curly as Sean’s dark green eyes always inquisitive.

The four of them lived like that for a while as a family. Mother taught Alister how to care for the boys, how to calm Seans worries, how to get Dylan to talk. All the while she played healthily, she wanted as if the child in her belly wasn’t killing her. But Alister had figured it out.

“Whatever he becomes Alister, whatever this baby becomes, let him know he is loved.” The mother made him promise 

When the day came that Alister woke to the screams of a baby it had been unexpected. The bedroom in which their mother had lay just the night before now was covered in dirt and dust. A small blond baby with the most brilliant green eyes lay there instead. Picking the baby up to soothe the baby with his pinky finger for now Alister was flanked by his other two brothers.

“What will he be called?” Sean asked

“What will we do without mother?” Dylan sounded on. The verge of rare tears

And for once Alister knew the answer to throes questions. “You will stay with me. I will keep you all safe ... and his name is Arthur.” 

So no. Alister never wanted to be an older brother. Never fancies himself as such. But with his baby brother sucking on his pinky like it was a woman’s breast, and Sean and Dylan on either side pressed close for comfort, with everything warm and no questions in his mind, Alister would not have it any other way.

  
  



	2. The Shape of Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ireland and Scotland centric, Wales, England, America, Canada. modern times, Human AU. Poverty, mentions of character death, allusions to suicide attempt and self harm

Sean Kirkland hated Mondays. He always had and always will. To the seventeen-year-old ginger, Mondays were like waking up from a sweet dream that was the weekend and having to face the cold hard cruel reality of the workweek. He hated them even more now that, two years after their mother's death now, that same dream-like feeling could be applied to the small family's eldest brother Alister. The only indication Sean got most days that Alister was still alive was the Warm edge of the queen bed the six brothers shared and the missing lunch from the fridge.

There where six of them total in the tiny, one bedroom one bathroom central London flat. Alistair was always the last home and first gone. The eighteen-year-old ginger had had to step up as breadwinner for the family ever since their mother passed two years ago from a brain tumor. Carving a small existence for his brothers. The downfall for keeping their head above water was that he had to work three jobs, barely home at all, barely sleeping or eating. But he bared his hardships in silence. His one day off was Sunday. As far as he could see his brothers, though missing him, were happy and well-fed and living as good as they can.

The second was the second eldest. Sean. If Alistair was the Breadwinner Then Sean was the bread buyer. At sixteen he had stepped up to raise his younger brothers. Cooking food, getting the boys to and from school, then to their extracurriculars. He knew everyone’s schedules like the back of his hand and then some. But again, he was Sixteen, and still in school, and worried as hell. Worried for everything, for the budget he would be given for food shopping, for what condition Alister would be in, for how tired the eldest would be. Always worried. But he made it through, he had to. Alister as working ten times harder and never compared so how could Sean even begin to complain?

The twins would get up some time after Sean. Alfred and Matthew where only five, and happy as could be. At this point, they called Sean Mom and Alister Dad when they did see him. Starting primary school they were out most of the day. Giving Sean a little more time to breathe. They would come down for breakfast always eager, always happy. It always put a smile on Sean's face.

The last two in would always be the middle children. Dylan and Arthur, fourteen and ten Respectively they were starting to suspect that their life wasn’t particularly as well as it would be.

Regardless though. Breakfast was reliably on the table as well as dinner. This breakfast in particular held a certain tension in the air.

”I have a game tomorrow,” Arthur says suddenly over breakfast, finally breaking the heavy air. He said it small, sheepishly, like it was something bad, “You don’t have to come. I know you’re busy…”

Sean feels his heart break when he hears how small Arthur was, “We will come” Sean promises without thinking. Tomorrow was his day off anyway. He had planned to use it to get some extra homework done

Arthurs emerald eyes are wide with hope, “even Alister?”

Sean wavers, no way in hell could Alister get that off, no way in hell would there even be a chance. And Sean knew,  _ he knew _ , that Alister would be heartbroken to even know that he missed Arthur’s game, “I- I’ll ask”

That was enough for that spark of hope to make a home in Arthur’s smile. Ooooh, it will hurt when Alister doesn’t show up the next day. From there the day went on as usual. The boys we went to school, dinner was made, homework was done and the boys were put to bed. All that was left was for Sean to wait for Alistair.

It took too long. Alister was supposed to be home at midnight, twelve-thirty the latest if he stopped for dinner. It was nearly two in the morning when Alister came through the door. Shoulders sagging, covered in motor oil and dirt, long red hair falling out of a ponytail. A teenage beard unkempt, dark bags under his eyes, pale, too thin, an air of tired around him… he was a man beaten by the world. And willingly suffering through it for his brothers.

“Alister?” Sean asks quietly, worried, shoes, and jacket on easy to go securing for the other.

Alister jumps, spinning to face Sean, and relaxing when he recognizes Sean “What are you doing up love? It’s late. You have school tomorrow.”

Sean shakes his head, rushing forward to hug Alister tightly, needing the comfort, even if the warmth was diminished by the lost weight and the strength seeped by exhaustion. “Where were you? You’re usually home by midnight right?” 

Alister rocks them slowly, rubbing Sean’s back, “ I know, something came up. I had to stay late. I’m sorry.”

They stand like that, comforting each other by just being there, in each other's arms, stealing this small moment of peace before Sean pulls back. “Artie.. he had a game tomorrow.. the rest of us are going… I- I figured you should know.

A-listers face twists into a frown, “you.. know I probably won't be able to come.”

Sean nods slowly watching the dirty carpet. “I-I know… but I figured…” Sean sighs, “I figured you would pull something like you always do and be able to come.”

Alister's expression is closed off. Thinking, Sean knew he was, it was all in the elder's eyes. And it hurt Sean, to tell this to him. That the eldest was missing their little brother's first school soccer game, missing their little brother's life that he was trying so hard to provide for. Sean knew it never would ever hurt him as much as it hurts Alister. The evidence was the crushing hug Alister pulled Sean in to. All Sean noticed was the smell, motor oil, and cubical and disinfectant. Distinctly not home, distinctly not Alister.

“I’ll see what I can do Seanny, I’ll see what I can do…” Alister mutters into Sean’s curls, a hint of tears in his tone, the hug needed for Alister more than Sean.

Sean nods, “Let's get you to bed. I don’t want you passing out on me.”

Alister was easy to placate and wash up and change passing out the moment his head hits the pillow. Sean next to him. Watching for a moment, frowning at the deep purple bags under his eyes, the too sharp jawline, the sunken sheets, and worry lines ghosted along his brow. Alister was trying his best to work three low paying jobs just to keep their head above water and keep the bills paid, keep food onto the table. He wouldn’t let Sean touch the bills, not even look their way. But Sean was not a stupid boy. He could tell their situation was not good. Everything Alister does, every breath he takes, is for his brothers. Sean will always remember that he had figured that out years ago. The scars on Alister's wrist, five years old and self-inflicted, were a constant reminder of it. “You worry so much for us Ali…” Sean whispers into the dark, “But never for yourself…” that job would always fall to him it seemed it had always been his job.

And right now? Right now Sean was worried as hell for Alister.

  
  



	3. A Promise to Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America and Russia centric, death, promises, suicide by another’s hand.

America handed me the gun that day. He promised to come back with a bright but forced smile.

It was a meeting, it's always a meeting when someone hands another one a gun. Some people would call it suicide, we, nations, we called it releasing pent up tension, urges we didn't want to ignore, days we just wanted to skip. We always handed the gun to someone else so it could never technically be called suicide. And we always did it in front of others so it can never be murder.

America came to me in the beginning, handed me the gun with his fake smile and pain in his eyes that stole a little of the crystal blue ocean that bordered him, “There's no one else to want to kill me but you dude,” he had told me, and when I gave him a skeptical look, I knew where his land and politics were at right now, I don't blame him for wanting it, I just questioned if it was a good idea. He just rolled his eyes at the look he knew so well “I’ll come back big guy, promise.”

Alfred does not break promises.

I shot him, pulled the trigger right at the base of his jaw. A clean kill I had done countless times before. His head snapped upwards, blood sprayed my face and scarf and jacket. He fell backward. It was like every other time he had asked, like every other time he had promised.

It took him much too long to come back, there are weeks instead of the usual day. It was what was happening causing the delay. It was sad watching his family, three other blonds in a world of many, all battered and bruised, dark circles under their eyes from one reason or another, wait over him, bending stiff jointed for when he came back, growing ever more worried each passing day. The silent glanced that passed between each other. The glare they sent my way. They all wanted to say something, call me a killer, scream and shout and hit as they blamed me for killing their brother. They couldn't, it was the protection of Alfred handing me the gun during the meeting.

When he did come back he was not the same. His smiles were not as bright, his laughter quieter or not at all. His eyes calculating, almost cold. Like he was at war and planning an attack. An animal rest to defend itself. Even with this change, he was still kind. Offering soft smiles to those that asked for help and a warm gaze to his family and animals that wandered up to him. He had changed, just a little bit. Enough to be noticed by us, but not by everyone else. It was almost okay.

America had handed me the gun that day, he had promised he would come back with a bright and fixed smile. He had never promised to be the same person when he did though. Alfred always found loopholes like that. It was just how he was.

Now it was my turn to give the gun back with a smile as fake as his.

  
  



	4. When an Empire Dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome centric, America mentioned once, death

“You know,” the dying empire laughs to the skeleton in front of him “The secrets I keep are tearing me up inside.”

The cave Rome had decided to spend his last moments of eternity was relatively well maintained, and an old remnant of a time most humans didn’t remember. Back when gods and their shrines were more important. Back when this old cave as a path to the underworld where the dead reside. A place to pay your respects. And now the great empire himself, Rome had chosen this place to call his grave. He knew he was dying, he could feel it. The barbarians raiding his city. His heart. How weak he had become, what the separation had driven him to be.

A nation dying is always, oftentimes, slow. A nation never disasters all at once. There's decay, corrosion, corruption. Mounting tension between two forces, one an immovable object and the other an unstoppable force. The unstoppable force being time and the immovable object being people’s inevitable greed.

Romulus has felt this coming for a long time. There was a string of bad emperors, the lack of land to conquer, the increasing divide between the rich and poor. It was not right. In the end, he was almost grateful when he heard the call. The call of warm inviting arms of death. The one thing truly guaranteed in life.

So he had made his home here, in the caves where people once worshiped the gods of death. Welcomed their presence even. And felt his strength weakening. Only the remains of some poor human that was in hindsight probably murdered here to keep him company. 

“I could tell them the secrets of everything.” Rome goes on, half delusional, “I have talked with god. And he does not like what we have become. I have seen the throne of Mount Olympus and it is empty!” 

This goes on for a long time, too long, how long he could not say. Time did not pass, only the bones decayed. Oh, how many secrets he toiled those bones. He told every secret he held close and closed his eyes with a final sigh of laughter.

The darkness of death brought with it a light fog. Not clouds of sulfur from hell nor bright white before the pearly gates. No this was an all-encompassing fog. A fog that after a small-time wandering held. A figure. A boy. With eyes as blue as the sky and hair as blond as Germania, dog tags around his neck and an old warm leather jacket sitting too comfortably on his shoulders. The boy gave him a weird look, a tired look. To much weight in his young face. Then waved. And vanished.

Romulus woke to the sun on his face. And the laughter of a party somewhere in the distance. Wine in the air. And he smiled. This is true peace.

  
  



	5. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhode Island Centric, other states mentioned, drugs, lows, depression

Rhoda hated the low. The groggy feeling, the numbness, honestly it was the worst part of being an addict. It’s one of those things you know is there but are never fully prepared to face. Even after sixty years or so the small. The stat still hasn’t gotten used to it.

What was worse was the fact that today was one over worst lows this decade. Leaving her in bed, unable to take even another hit. All but paralyzed, groggy, and half awake, maybe it wasn't even a low.. maybe it was returning from a death... no. no, she knew what that felt like.

Instead of the pain, Rhody let her mind wander let herself feel the sun streaming through the cracks in the window blinds and she would always admit that the gentle Breathing of her curtains in the sea breeze was a comfort. Planes a low drone somewhere far off, boats the same way.it's peaceful. And ore then once she drifts in and out of a doze only to be woken by a buzzing pain in her arms or legs. And occasionally by the annoying buzzing of her cracked and out of date cellphone. Though she did promptly ignore this annoyance.

What she couldn’t just. Ignore like her cellphone Was her older sister, basically her mother, the state of Virginia bagging into her room like a bull in a china shop. Trust her though, she tried. Virginia like a whirlwind of activity and noise coming in like a flood from a burst damn once the door was thrown out of the way. Rhody could not make herself pay attention to the worlds the elder state was saying, could hardly focus on Virginia's pretty eyes, “Your hair looks nice” so mumbles out unconsciously.

That gets Virginia to stop mid-lecture, so saddened, so appalled and somewhere deep beyond the pity and shame that made Rhody's gut clench when shes sober, made her want to cry when she noticed it now, was a strong will that had already decided enough was enough.

With Virginias whirlwind entrance to disrupt the dull aching monotony of the Low, Rhoda would have a second chance. That much Virginia was determined to gove.

  
  



	6. The Long Journey Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alister centric, post-WWI, depression, old man musings, there's a Dog,

Alister didn’t like these new wars. These modern wars. The Great War was not a fun war. Was not his type of war. His war was swords and honor and an open field. Modern wars where guns and smoke. Too much noise, not enough room to breathe sometimes no air to breathe. His wars were full of honor. The Great War was full of underhanded tricks.

Not like he could day this to anyone anyhow. The trenches were no place to give away the secret of who he was. The secret that he had a sure-fire way to see himself and his family home afterward. Then out of the trenches, Arthur was whisked away to the Queen's side establishing ways to get the nation back on its feet and the vaults filling up again. Francis was- well he was just out of the question for Alister. Couldn’t go to an ex to rant to about the war you both just came back from now cane ya? So that left Sean out of the question. Ah, Sean, his little brother and once upon a time lover. Never was in the war. Ireland, strictly neutral. Alister couldn’t go there... he just couldn’t. Old memories waited patiently for new ones to haunt him in the night.

That being said though. Alister has no place to go but home. Ghosting out of London when Arthur was safe passing through Glasgow and Edinburgh with hardly a glance at the work he’s long since ignored up far north in the highlands was tucked his little sheep farm. Lonely and far away he adored it. And the one that kept him company within it. “Ines!” He calls to the hills, knowing she heard, “I’m home?”

It’s before he can even get the door unlocked that he’s tackled by a big collie, the dog his sheeps Sheppard, while he’s away. She’s the best and only friend he has at this point.

“Yes, Yes I’m here, I’m home- Hey! I don’t want to eat your nose!” he pushes the dog away enough for him to sit up, though she immediately goes back to sniffing and licking him, so, so glad for him to be home. She doesn’t leave when he gets up to let them in, follows him around as he cleans the dust, and cooks a meager meal when he cleans himself and trips his hair, jumping onto the bed when he finally lays down, resting her head on his chest. Her warm body close. The dog never understood why his chest spasmed so much that night, or the salty water she licked away from his cheeks under the arm that was covering his eyes. But she didn’t whimper when he turned into her to hide his face into her fur. Because she loved her owner. And her owner hated modern wars.

  
  



	7. In The Shadow of a World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UK Centric, Hunger Games universe, The world outside of Panem, hopelessness, sadness, depression, mentally checked out characters, it's raining, It ends on a hopeful note I promise!

The Glasgow house Alister Returned to was Surprisingly warm. The lights glimmered in the windows brightly and a warm fire in the hearth awaited to gently kiss the cold dregs if a Scottish Rainstorm away. 

Alister, now The Albion Empire, knew what else was waiting for him. In the form of desperate green and red-rimmed eyes Arthur, formally England, greeted him. “The- the boys? My sons. Alister. Please- please tell me they’re alright?” Desperate, clinging to the last of his ruined family, Francis had broken what he beloved. And Alister has no way of fixing it.

“Easy lad. Easy. I have something to tell you all” the meeting was eventful. If heart reaching. What few nations remained in the drained world were silenced, muted, and twisted by tyrannical bosses and broadcasted to those few airways that still allowed- or even had the infrastructure- for it. He knew Panam never did. Isolated as the poor lad was. “Where’re the others?”

Arthur takes Alister’s hand, “The- the parlor. We moved Sean down from the bedroom...he needed a change” and led him there into the warmth. The warmth only from the heat of the fire. Empty husks of his other two brothers sat on the couch. 

Dylan, Alister thinks, has the most emotional range out of all of them now. At least outwardly. Everything about the boy was duller, his curls had lost volume, bags under his eyes. Alister knows he still dreams of dragons. That’s why those bags are there.

And Sean,  _ oh, lovely, darling Sean _ Alister thinks to himself as he kneels in front of the other, cupping pale cheeks where even once vibrant Freckles have faded. Shattered blue eyes met vacant clover ones. Albion had mercy, loads to spare, had nations, men he once called friend surrendering to him during the wars just to be given his mercy, but mercy was not putting these vacant eyes out of their misery. Not after their darling daughter faded from them in the chaos of the fall. If it was selfishness or mercy Alister just couldn’t make these eyes of his beloved anymore faded. “I.. I have news” there was no more stinging in Alister’s throat. No more static at the back of his mind, when he looked into Sean’s face - he swore he had heard singing from the other, soft as it was. A Lullaby to ease him to sleep the other night- “Alfred... Alfred’s rebelling. They.. they did their reaping today.. And Rhoda- she’s alive! She volunteered. Alfred- Alfred broke through. Took control again. Nearly choked Snow out” it had been a thing to whiteness. Alfred, still as strong as ever. “He.. he told me Matthew was still alive. No idea where.. but it’s his word” 

Alister tore his gaze away from Sean. He saw no change in the other's eyes. Still as empty as ever. But he heard Arthur stumble back. A hand over his mouth and more tears reddening his eyes already. For once they were hopeful.

He was about to get up to comfort Arthur when a hand, thin and shaky moved to hold his own. Sean weakly squeezing. And it was enough.

The room was warm again. Inside and out. Alister could feel it. Relit where their fighting spirits. Hope was a wonderful tinder. Burned for a good long while too.

As old as he was. Alister still knew as he had always known. That his main job as the eldest was to give his boys that tinder. Light their sparks and direction that flame to a cause. What is the cause now? Who’s to say. For now- moved now to sit between his brothers, the long-awaited and longed for cuddle pile finally completed with Sean now awake. Still quiet but his eyes were a little less vacant- he was still tending the spark. Making sure it wouldn’t sputter and die and leave them all cold again.


	8. All Gilbert Smells is Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert centric, witch burnings, burning alive, holocaust, concentration camps, History

It’s a familiar smell, burned into his memory, into his being. He was baptized in it after all. What he was born from. What he died in. It was all the same. 

But so, so different

The first time he died by fire he was young. Too young to have a name. Before he was The Teutonic Knights, back when he was just a memory, an idea. He was young, too young to know what he was doing. He had burned in a protest. Trapped in a building that his people had set alight. A church maybe? A synagogue. He remembers being born near the holy land. Barely. That young him died there. And from it came what he would be. When he woke up. The smell of wood still singed in his nose, he was created with a kind man smiling down on him and a black cross on a white cloak. He knew his name. 

The second time he died by fire Gilbert was less young. Nearly full grown. It was the 1600’s after all. And had for the most part avoided death. Until he was caught in Würzburg at the wrong time. Sacked for his strange coloring. The people cried demon simply for his eyes. Not the first time, not the last. It had landed him in cuffs, had landed him on top of the pyre, glaring down to all the people, all the humans. So brutal, so violent. Screaming for his death, Bavaria, he caught sight of a so-called brother, the bastard with his people. Striking at him. At his empire, and his little brother. 

Gilbert cursed revenge as the flames licked at the eyes that had caused him so many problems.

In the end, Gilbert never got that revenge. Not in the way he wanted. An eye for an eye. Bavaria did fall. He fell in the unification of Germany. But Gilbert did too. From a kingdom to a state. And torn in half by Poland no less. Stuck behind the lines maneuvering through the inner circle in Berlin while Ludwig was out in Russia. His last trial by fire was one where so many had been despised off. At least they were not alive while they burned. Honestly, he shouldn’t have been either. His healing had been inconsistent during this war. It either did too well or healed him at a human pace. This time, it brought him back from being Gassed just to have a steel door slammed at his feet. And only a moment to gasp, nearly processing the smell of the body on top of him before he felt the flames tearing through his flesh yet again. Not even enough time to scream.

“What are you doing up Bruder?” Ludwig yawns, wandering into the kitchen one predawn in a boiling summer. It was comparatively cooler down here in the tile and lower floor then it was up in his room where he defended from the heat with a ceiling fan and his boxers.

“It’s To go to sleep” Gilbert mumbles, the albino in much the same state of dress. A mug of untouched lava dad tea in hand’ red eyes fixed on the horizon where the first fingers of dawn were clawing their way over.

Ludwig hums now, moving farther into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, frowning at the scar riddled back of his older brother, frowning more at the shadow of bones he could see. And the marks of sleepless nights under his eyes. “Where you up all night?”

Again Gilbert slumps bong shoulders, “it’s too hot to sleep,” he says again like that was the answer to everything.

Ludwig lets his hands fall to his sides. “So another Nightmare..” they had become more common for the Albino since the walk fell. Close to Thirty years now and Ludwig has no answer still.

Gilbert hums, low, a hum that meant everything and nothing all at once, finally forcing his eyes to look at Ludwig. “Hey.. do yourself a favor? Don’t get burned alive”

Ludwig holds Gilbert’s gaze for a moment. Then two, and finally he nods. That’s as much hint he would get as to the nature of Gilbert's torment the night before. “Would you like breakfast?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, he can hear the dogs waking up. Gilbird tweeting somewhere in the distance, flipping the stove on.

He doesn’t see Gilbert tense and force himself to relax, it’s too subtle a move and too quick a moment. Red eyes eye the gas flame. Forced back to the horizons when he knows it won’t go out of control. The sun burned his eyes, the heat was too suffocating.

And all Gilbert could smell was fire.

  
  



	9. Suffocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Potato brothers centric, Character death, World War 2, concentration camps, torture, suffocation, buried alive, fucking nazis

Gilbert’s choking, he’s not quite sure in what, but he is. 

Something on his chest, he feels ribs move when he tries to squirm.

Somethings in his ear, making a loud scratching noise. Making cold blood drip into his hair

There’s something in his eyes too, eating away at the soft tissue-

Oh.

Oh, he remembers now.

The train, the camp, the work, the sickness burning, the death, the ground, the bodies, the screaming.

Rot hits his nose. He can’t take a breath to scream. He knows why now.

Is this how he lives the rest of his nationhood?

* * *

The Dachau camp was untended as Ludwig made his way to the gate. No guards in the towers, or the houses, the gate was locked. It made sense, from what Ludwig had heard the American army was just days away. He had little time then. Searching the camp and its satellites would take too much time, and would make him too sick. Death and rot made the air heavy here, already behind fences and in poorly built shacks he saw ghostly faces glare at him in his uniform. If what he had heard was true, he deserved the glares. Even still. There must be records of who came through here. Of who was killed here. Himmler had told him that they kept records. He needed the Commandant's records. Needed the office house. The layout was surprisingly simple. And frankly gave way to the camp's cruelty. The camp's office was the only building that looked habitable. To Ludwig's surprise, he found that the camp was less untended as he had thought. The Commandant along with a spattering of SS and the camp's doctors were there as well. All negotiating the surrender of the camp to American forces. Germany was sick. Ludwig couldn't care less. Insisting instead to see the camps prisoner records and being allowed what bits and prices were still unburnt. So Ludwig read as much as he could, igniting the beatings, the burning the killings, and the final death march as he did.

He was crying when an American soldier finally found him, clutching a ledger to his chest on it, amongst the hundred other names was his brothers, and the date and time of his death, eight months ago.

He was not allowed to keep the paper as he was led away for interrogation. It didn’t matter. He had memorized the numbers anyway

* * *

Ludwig was held in a cleared out room in the office quarters of Dachau. He spent his days silently. Looking out the window to the yard. Watching American soldiers and Red Cross try to save, to help to undo the damage Ludwig and his people have done. He spent his days searching the yard for a shock of white hair and hopes to hear that familiar laugh. Even if he knew the truth, Numbers, date and time burned into his mind, that his brother was somewhere else. Stuck in a mass grave somewhere. Somewhere he can’t even begin to dig up because he was locked in this stupid room by a stupid American-

Speak of the devil.

“So it is you Germany” America sounded almost too surprised, opening the door to Ludwig's cell. The bomber jacket is his signature at this point, hair wind-whipped and cheeks rosy. Too young. Yet Ludwig was younger, “my people tell me they found you crying. Gave me this as the reason why” he held up the damned paper with the truth stashed away. Mercy in his eyes. Apology. Pity Ludwig knew he didn’t deserve it. One name amongst hundreds of thousands meant something to both of them. But that one name didn’t not and should not excuse the crime he committed. 

Ludwig balls his fists at his sides. Ungloved and provided fresh clothes and food and fresh cleaned from a shower, treated so much better then he had treated his prisoners, he sees it now. “Why do you care? We are your enemies, Jones. You should be thankful one of us was already taken care of”

America has the audacity to hum knowingly. Step into the room and *smile* gently and fondly, a way Ludwig was not quite used to from the usually loud America, “I knew Gilbert. And I owe him, frankly. A life for a life. This is the least I can do” like he was going to help more than offer pity. Then he laughs. Normally almost bitterly, as if the absurdity finally hit him. “Besides. If it was one of my brothers under that permafrost I’d be begging someone to dig him up” and like the man of mystery that Ludwig coined him as -he’d never understood the nation across the Atlantic- America was gone. And he was again alone

* * *

Ludwig watches the camp get dug up. Americans doing the digging this time. And some Germans from the nearby town too came to help. Exposed to the camp as they were, fully exposed to its cruelty, guilt gripped their souls and now they wanted to help. And Ludwig could do nothing. Not any more. The first few days he helped. But his city’s are being bombed, his heart one of them. He’s convulsing in pain more often than not. There’s still a war on after all. And Berlin is the finish line for the two sides. It’s while he’s withering through another bombing run on his land that he misses the shock of white hair being carried out of the grave, covered in bugs and gore. Half rotted, half-eaten Naked and starved and dirty, lifted from the grave, and brought on Commander Alfreds orders to the hospital they have set up. Ludwig missed all of that while choking on blood.

* * *

For the first time in what feels like forever Gilbert wakes up and he can breathe. A sharp gasp fills his lungs and he starts to scream. In pain, in fury, in desperation. His ribs are still broken. His eyes are still eaten and there’s still maggots in his ears. All he can do is scream. And scream and scream himself mute. Writhing because he can, moving dead and cold muscles as he screams into the sheets. Sure he would shed tears if he has the water to do so. Thrashing against the arms trying to restrain him. In hindsight prevent him from hurting anyone or himself. He quiets when a needle enters his neck. He’s out by the time the arms loosen their grip. He falls asleep breathing this time at least.

* * *

Ludwig was led out of his room with two armed guards on either side. And down to the hospital. Rows of prisoners in various states of dying. Most would make it. He knew that. The majority of the lost had died within the first month of the American occupation. Any that remained would live, so long as they did not take their own life. They would live. But that is not why he was here. He had seen the horrors of the camp when the townspeople had. No. The reason he was here was in a locked room in the back of the hospital. Well lit and with one sole occupant. A man of white hair. Sitting in his bed and covered in white bandages too. Eyes two bloody stains on the bandages covering them. To thin, hair longer, and still dirty despite the many baths he had gone through. Rendered blind, deaf. Gilbert still knew when Ludwig entered the room, turning his head to face him. Unmistakably there was a smile splitting chapped lips. Arms sluggish with death opened to invite a hug that Ludwig did not hesitate to take. Muttering apologies that fell on rotted ears. Both brothers were shaking with tears. Clinging to each other. 

For now, the world did not matter. For now, the war did not matter. Not the pain of the past, nor the present or the looming pain of the future. They were together. And for now, that was enough.

  
  



	10. Some Things Never Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aph Trio centered, World War 2, Concentration camp, life after abuse, comfort, care, hurt and comfort, Gilbert gets a hug. they're all friends, or in a relationship if you chose to see it that way

Roderich was prideful. He knew as much. Pride gave him an empire. Pride gave him a marriage —even if it was rocky at times— pride gave him a war he was not ready for, and then this second one that was so much worse. Sometimes pride had to be thrown away for decency, for morals. Pride only made his training at Dachau bearable for so long. 

Only so long as it had taken him to arrange himself out. With a car of his own, and luggage in the back. He was taught how to drive of course. How else was he to quickly transport prisoners from the satellites to their death? A car full of luggage was not a far cry from a truck full of crying people. It was steadier if you asked him at The Camp. It made him want to gag less if you asked him anywhere else. It was not Pride but Fear allowed him to follow those orders.

Pride sure as hell was getting him out though. Sweating in his black uniform and the summer heat that threatened everything, it was almost comical how much his bootlicking had made him trusted amongst the guards and staff here, they barely searched his stuff for leaving contraband, let him go with smiles, warm wishes, wishes that he would have a safe trip, that he would come back soon. 

Like hell he would. If all things went as he wanted he never would have to put on this nasty black uniform again. Much less step into another Concentration Camp. No. He’s a pianist, not a killer. He’s only a Nazi to survive, now, he’d rather wear an armband then striped rags. 

Things, so far. As planned, the roads were nearly empty. Most of the oil used for the floundering war efforts, now more than ever. The mountains were as beautiful as ever. Enough to make the seven and a half hours of continuous driving almost worth it. Almost. There were breaks of course. He was only human. And he needed to check and make sure the car was holding up, stops for gas too. Usual maintenance. 

Budapest was as wonderful as ever. Roderich could appreciate Hungarian architecture at the very least. Even if it was draped in red of Nazi swastikas. Nothing could take from Hungary’s beauty. Not from the land, nor the nation. Elizabeta was as beautiful as ever running out to him. Smiling, her hair back in a bandana and herself in a cute pink apron. The image of a happily married couple even if they were not technically that any longer. For now, they could pretend. They had gotten remarkably good at that. Chatting happily for the neighbors to see as he brought his luggage in. Barely keeping their hands from each other as the day wore on. Then dusk fell, and through dinner they glanced to each other, trying to talk through looks alone, as if they were being watched, glancing out the windows to watch the neighbor's lights go out one by one. 

Finally, Roderich stood from his easy chair and newspaper. “Pardon me, Eliza. I seem to have forgotten something in the car” he’s already reaching for the door when she grabs his arm just in time to see headlights on the street.

“There’s a curfew, Roderich..” she warns in hushed tones, “be careful”

Roderich, for a moment, feels real love burn in his chest. It’s that love that makes him bow her head and kiss her hairline, “I will, I’ll be careful, just draw up a bath and get some soft clothes ready, the razor too. Just like we talked about”

Elizabeta nods, and quickly kisses his cheek, letting him Vanish into the night to claim the prize. She had tasks to do anyway. Yet she can’t seem to shake the butterflies. Surly what Roderich had told her can’t be true. It must be a joke! A jest! No way the world was that twisted.

Roderich only hoped that the patrol car was long gone. He couldn’t hear the engines or even see the glow of headlights anymore. For the best he supposed, rushing to his car and prying up the back seat with the crowbar stashed away in the trunk, sighing when red eyes glared at the light of the stars, “can you stand?” Roderich asks, offering a hand, hours on hours being crammed perfectly still in a hollowed-out back seat could not be easy. He had barely managed seven and a half driving. And that was with breaks and a comfortable seat.

“I’ll manage” the raspy voice of Gilbert assures. Taking Rodrich’s hand to help him out, stretching cramped legs that he can’t quite get straight right now, rolling stiff shoulders as they hobble as quick as Gilbert can to the safety of the house. 

“You’re still not talking any better?” Roderich worries, ignoring the smell of unwashed Gilbert. Ashamed to say he had gotten used to too many abhorrent things during his tenure at the camp. Gilbert has too. Gilbert much more then Roderich. If the man Roderich knew for battles and won wars was able to stay in a cramped pitch-black box for hours without complaint, then it’s safe to say something has changed.

“Not yet. Being denied basic human rights makes healing a little slow” Gilbert flashes an albeit impressive grin to Roderich. Chapped lips cracking.

All Roderich could do was huff as he pushed the door open, “of all things they left your Funnybone intact?”

Gilbert was going to say something snarky back. Roderich just knows it. But Elizabeta is there to stop that, shut that right down with a horrified gasp. “Oh...  _ Gilbert _ ”

Gilbert blinks in surprise, just for a moment, and finally, he takes in where he was, Roderich watches Gilbert’s eyes look around and in the dark shadows of candlelight he puts together where they were, “Eliza. It’s good to see you.” He offers a more gentle smile, trying to play it all off, as nothing happened. Like he just hasn’t seen her in a few years. It almost made Rodrich mad.

It did make Elizabeta mad, “you fool!” She yells the way she frets over Gilbert betrays her anger, head down to hide worried tears, “You idiotic Ape of a man! You’re skin and bones! Filthy! And what are these rags?! Come on. *come on* There's a warm bath waiting for you upstairs and fresh clothes. I’ll have food for you once you’re done. I am not taking no for an answer” she’s already whisking the albino away. It’s all Roderich could do to keep Gilbert from stumbling back down the stairs when cramped legs give out. It’s a whirlwind of minutes that gets Roderich and Gilbert in the bathroom together with a door at their backs, speechless at what a force Eliza was at times.

“She hasn’t changed I see” Gilbert snickers, itching at his head, another thing for Roderich to worry about.

“Come on. Get in the bath. Let me see if I can’t do anything to save your hair” it had already been buzzed a few times, Roderich notes and was finally starting to grow in again. Gilbert was looking like Gilbert. But lice had been a plague amongst the prisoners, a plague Gilbert now seemed to have. Admittedly Rodrich spent too much time washing and rewashing and picking through Gilbert’s hair that the waters of the bath had turned cold and Gilbert’s skin was turned a faint pink from the scrubbing he’s done. It still turned Roderich's stomach to see Gilbert naked. Without the baggy protection of clothes, all the bones and scars and fresh wounds were open on display.

“You can just shave it you know. I won’t mind. What’s one more time to get the bugs out?” Gilbert pipes up finally. It’s then Roderich realizes how bad Gilbert’s shivering in the cold water. It’s all the apology Roderich can give to wrap Gilbert in the fluffiest towel Elizabeta has and sit him on the stool in front of the mirror, shaving away the matted and bug-infested white hair of his friend. He’s glaring right along. 

Watching Gilbert try to clear a plate was worse than anything before. Roderich decides when they’re gathered towards the end of the dining room table. coffee for Eliza and him and a plate of perfectly made fine food-Rodrich swears it’s one of Gilbert’s favorites, leftovers from what they had that night- Gilbert’s stalling for time when he runs his mouth. And the bites he does take barely make a dent in the portions he was given. It’s disheartening when he admits defeat and there’s well more than most the plate left. 

The night is spent with the three of them around the fire on the floor, blankets and pillows pulled around them. Gilbert caught in the middle. It’s quiet. Silent. Reassuring. Gilbert smelled clean. The baked bread and oil smell of Prussia was taking hold again. And Roderich couldn’t be more pleased, even if he has the urge to wrap them both up protectively.

Gilbert’s the one to skip along the silence. “Thank you” he sighs eyes squinting at the firelight, if Roderich was any less of a man he’d liken Gilbert’s eyes to hellfire. Huddled in too many blankets to divert the cold hand of starvation. “For a happy end to my worst nightmare”

Elizabeta looks up at their friend, there's worry still in her green eyes. Her cheeks lifting from Gilbert’s shoulder, “of course. We’re here for you. Always have been will be”

Roderich hums an affirmative. There were other nights like these. Where instead of a tattoo of numbers and a shaved head it was burned, or a rope burned around his neck or water in his lungs. Humanity has never really done right by Gilbert. They blamed the eyes. Arguably Roderich's favorite part. The contrast in the red and white was poetic. “We’re here for you. Our houses have been. Are and always will be a sanctuary for you” 

There’s a new tremble in Gilbert’s bones, weakly he’s pulling them close and hiding there where neither can see his face. Neither says anything. Pride makes Gilbert too strong for tears. Roderich knows that he’s the same way. But it’s okay. They know what side they’re on now. There's no room for pride when you’re committing genocide.

  
  



	11. Things Never Change part 2

The war was over. And people were celebrating. Through bombed out streets and lack of food, he could feel it. Austria could feel the sigh of his people. He imagines Hungary can too. Celebrating not the loss of the war. No. Nobody would celebrate that. They were celebrating the end of bloodshed. And that certainly was a cause to celebrate. Yet the celebration was undercut by dread. By fear. Roderich never thought it would get this bad. 

Budapest has changed hands from Hungarian to Soviet. Yet they were no safer. Roderich has seen it while in the ruined parts of the city looking for anything he could, food, clothes, medicine. It was March, the bridges coming into the city where destroyed. And the Soviets were more occupied with moving on to take His Vienna then to stay and protect the Hungarians from deserters.

It was safer for Elizabeta to stay in the house. She was needed there anyway. To take care of Gilbert.

Gilbert was another thing to worry about entirely. Roderich can feel the Red Army crawling along his skin with the dust and grime of a siege, the house had somehow managed to stay standing through all of it. The fact they where nowhere nears the innermost City seemed to help them weather the worst of the fighting. Yet Roderich found himself singularly focused. His heavy jacket made heavier with his prizes from the day picking through rubble and standing in the food lines. Stomach rumbling with hunger. The night had fallen. And firelight is what kept the second-floor bedroom warm. Elizabeta the picture of beauty in amongst ruin. Gentle in dabbing away sweat from Gilbert’s forehead. His still gaunt cheeks flushed with fever.

“How is he?” Roderich asks, stepping into the room. Taking a moment to warm his hands by the fire.

Elizabeta glances to him. And finishes her task before answering, “he’s delirious still. I think his fevers spiked. I’ve changed his clothes and bedsheets to prevent it from spreading to us.” She lists. They had seen it too many times in their life, contracted it fewer. But for now, it was best if they could prevent it. Typhus. How awful Gilbert should come to this after all he’s gone through.

“Damned fool went and gave his name to the people in the camps” Roderich grumbles. Just like Gilbert to do. A people with a nation may very well kill the nation, but damn it if it isn’t harder to kill them. It must have been easy pickings. The Nazis have ripped those people from their homes. Made them unrepresented. Gilbert just had to put his name in the blank. “He’ll kill himself at this rate”

Elizabeta gives a sad hum. The floorboards creak under her when she stands, coming to Roderichs side and taking his hand. “It’s almost over. He is still Prussia. Though I fear the advance into Germany is not doing him favors.” 

Roderich takes a deep sigh and nods, “yes. You’re right. It’s not all Their fault”

A silence overcomes them, broken by the crackle of fire and Gilbert’s sleep muffled cough. It was almost relaxing if Roderich could rid himself of the chill in his bones.

“What did you find today?” Elizabeta is careful in breaking the silence. Her voice tracing careful lines of tentative fear so it breaks how she wants it too.

Roderich can’t fault her for that. He knows he’s been on edge. The uselessness if himself in this situation getting to him. Times had changed, he and his admittedly high-class tendencies were a thing of the past. A thing to be forgotten in this bombed-out world. “Clothes. Some shoes I think might fit Gilbert once he’s well. No medicine still” 

Elizabeta nods. Whatever he comes home with, no matter how little, she never voices to disappointment that he hasn’t found more. “He will get better on his own”

Roderich says nothing to that, fear still grips his heart every time he thinks of Prussia’s condition. Demoted from a nation, not a state. And now with the wars end on the horizon and German victory a pipe dream. What would become of them?

There’s no time to voice the concerns, no want to exasperate their fear. So the silence comes to stay. It always seems to be present now, a fourth member of their trio. Not entirely unwelcome but still too big for comfort. And easily dashed away.

The silence stays well into the morning, when Gilbert’s sitting up in bed, staring blankly between them, too weak to eat the bread Rodrich brings, they make the best soup they can and try, god do they dry to get him to eat, anything. He’s still deathly thin, trembling with a cold that’s not quite imaginary, spindly fingers attempting to itch at flea bites that Roderich has to keep him from. Whatever Gilbert eats is thrown up an hour or so later. The retching disrupts Elizas sleep. But Roderich is there, providing comfort to how he can. Rubbing Gilbert’s back and combing through short sweaty hair. By late afternoon Elizabeta shoos him off from Gilbert and retakes her spot as the caretaker. Fresher from sleep. That’s when Roderich dons his heavy coat and goes out. Witnesses the brutality. Shy’s away from the guns. No new medicine. No shoes to bring home. Just the food from the lines. Everything else has been picked clean.

Roderich never thought it could get this bad, much less any worse.

  
  



	12. Midnight Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roderich and Gilbert Centric, abusive families, teen parents, broken family, abused children, gilbert still needs a hug,

Roderich was not normally a light sleeper. He usually slept like the dead. But something about tonight- maybe it was the rainstorm outside, or Elizabeta working overnight and leaving the bed empty, or the weird feeling that something was happening- kept him awake. Spending his time mindlessly scrolling through his phone, waiting to be tired, when the screen changed to an unknown number. It wasn’t in his contacts, and it had a weird area code. So Roderich let it ring, and ring. Wondering what telemarketer would be calling at nearly 11:40 at night. It was a moment before the same number popped up again. “Okay... maybe not a telemarketer..?” Roderich mutters yo himself sitting up finally, throwing a wary glance to the darkness outside as he Answers, “hello?”

There’s a sniffle on the other side of the line, “R-Roderich?” The very familiar and very worrying voice of Roderich's little cousin Gilbert mutters out. * ’I... I need help’*

Those three words get Rodroch up, putting the phone on speaker while he hurried to get dressed. Pulling random clothes- jeans and a sweatshirt, casual clothes a far cry from his button-ups and slacks- where are you Gilbert? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? What did your parents do?” Roderich asks quickly, it was always the boy's parents that did it, always.

There’s a few more sniffles, quiet cooing and shushing to a faint noise away from the phone, *’I- I’m at the bus station, in the city. An, and I can’t walk to your place in the rain like this... their closing and I can’t- I- I can’t make the walk..’* Gilbert starting to break, desperation, tears, choking his voice. Roderich can imagine him trembling gripping at his shirt or digging his nails into his arms, trying to breathe.

Roderich is already grabbing the keys and an extra coat, phone back to his ear when he’s rushing to the car, “Hey, hey it’s okay, Gilbert it’s okay. I’m coming. Already in the car. Do you remember where Eliza works? Go there if you think you can okay? If not stay outside the Terminal until I get there. I’ll be there soon” he has to talk over the car starting up, putting his phone down when it collects to Bluetooth. 

There’s a noise of affirmation from Gilbert, a small whimper over a matter of an announcement. *’They’re closing soon... hurry.. please?*’

It’s all the prompting Rodroch needs to start to speed, “I am. I am Gil. I’m coming. Can you stay on the phone? Do you want to? Do you need to?” He would. He’s done it before, for a whole panicked four-hour ride when Gilbert had been rather Bad

*’I- I can’t. I’m borrowing a phone’* not an I don’t want to, and can’t. A perfectly reasonable one. Roderich grimaces, he’s getting Gilbert a phone this Christmas. A good one, that isn’t parent paid for or on minutes. 

But he keeps his voice level, “I understand. Stay there okay? Be safe, and be smart” 

*"I will, I will.. thank you, Roderich.. I’ll see you in a little bit’* and with that there’s silence. The line dead, and presumably the phone handed back to the kind stranger that let him borrow it.

And that leaves Roderich in silence to wonder what the hell is going on, how bad Gilbert Maybe. Whether it was a few bruises or a broken bone again. Maybe some rather harsh words screamed at him by the parents that sent the teen running Roderich way again? Maybe.. maybe. But it usually was never this late, and usually, Gilbert would brave the walk come rain or snow. One particularly foolish time was Christmas Day. He had come in second on a music competition the evening before. Roderich nearly had a heart attack when he found Gilbert blending in a little too well with the fresh snow on the porch. Red fingers clutched right around his flute, tears froze where they rolled. Roderich was just thankful Gilbert’s frostbite wasn’t more severe. This though. This didn’t feel like those times. There’s another factor to it now and Roderich doesn’t know what it is. And it kind of scares him.

The rain was coming down in sheets in the city. And the bus terminal was dark. Save for a figure huddled under the overhand, a bundle in his arms and a.. baby carrier at his feet. So he parks the car. Letting the light on and unlocking the door Gilbert quickly rushing to put the baby carrier in the back seat, then putting the said baby into it, before getting in himself, wide-eyed and scared, Roderich hates to note how he limps. “Are you okay?” Roderich asks watching Gilbert before the light fades. A new blank eye, busted lip, bruised cheek. Oooh one of these days he was going to punch the father, he swears.

Gilbert’s shaking slightly, white hair plastered to his face from the rain, red eyes red-rimmed from tears. But he nods. “Yea. Yea I’m.. I’m okay.. wasn’t the worst beating I’ve had..”

Roderich reaches out, brushing Rey hair from Gilbert’s face. “Do you want to tell me what happened? And why you have a baby? Or do you want to wait for tomorrow and Elizabeta to be home?”

Gilbert bites his lip at that, hesitating, he still seemed scared. “I- I want to wait.... and his name is Ludwig..” 

Roderich nods that is okay. Gilbert can take his time, so long as the boy was not bleeding then it was okay. They were okay. Starting to drive home, Gilbert leaning towards Rodroch, looking completely spent and miserable. There was the promise of a hot shower in the boy's future, and warm food- Rodrich swears up and down gilbert was thinner than the last time they saw each other just a few weeks ago- and the baby would be taken care of. “Gilbert. I’m going to stop at the store to get baby bottles formula and diapers okay? Just for tonight. You can stay in the car. I’ll leave it on. Just a quick stop.” Gilbert barely nods eyes distant, shell shocked, not good.

Roderich is quick in the store, diapers, formula baby bottles and a few sweet snacks for Gilbert to hopefully make him feel better. Silence fills the car as they ride home, in the house. Through the night. And into the morning after over breakfast with the now four of them. Gilbert quiet. Silent. And that’s how he stays for a week.

It was through social media and the family group chat that Roderich found out what was happening, Gilbert’s parents calling for a blacklist of the boy. Calling him a disgrace, a whore, a child out of wedlock, to not take him in, kick him to the streets. It makes Roderich's blood boil enough to leave the chat. He had better things to attend to. Mainly getting *his* new ward to play the piano with him. Get him to talk, to express. In any way, he could. 

They didn’t need that rotted old-money family. Not if they were going to treat Gilbert like that. No. The four of them would do just fine on their own.

  
  
  



	13. Slipping Through his Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roderich centered, suicide aftermath, bad family situations, human au, teen parents, coma, hospitals, medical things.

Roderich's hands were shaking, his leg bounced nervously. The stray beat of the heart monitors a shrill metronome in time with the hollow rasp of assisted breathing. He was a man of music, yet no tune could match the guilt he felt looking at his kid cousin laying pale and broken in the hospital bed before him.

It was nearly a week ago now, the bruises Gilbert left on his arm where just fading. “a coma” the doctor had said, “the CAT scans show head trauma, several broken bones, a neck injury, back too. He’s lucky to be alive” had said the doctor to Roderich and his soon to be wife a week ago. *A Week*. A week from the rainy night and Rodroch can’t be sure he’s gotten more than a few hours sleep. Between the six-month-old baby left behind, that cried and cried for the father fast asleep in a coma, the nightmares, the worry. Roderich can’t blame himself, he can’t blame Elizabeta either.

“Your parents officially disowned you,” Rodroch says to the too pale boy hooked up to half a dozen machines helping him not die, “don’t worry though Gil, I’ve got the adoption papers already. Waiting for them to be processed” Rodrochs just trying to keep the uncertain quiver out of his voice. Gilbert’s only sixteen, sixteen and he had a kid, a shitty life, a near suicide. “God” Roderich breaths brushing wispy strands of silver hair out of Gilbert’s closed eyes, he wasn’t one to pray normally, but now is anything but normal isn’t it? “Please... He’s suffered enough. He’s just a kid damn it. Just a kid...” Roderich mumbles, bending forward over his knees in the hospital chair, holding Gilbert’s too cold, to thin hand. The white static of grief overtaking him, his voice nearly cracks when he pleads. “Don’t make me bury my son. Please” he pleads through tears in the quiet best of hospital machines.

* * *

It haunted him, the look in Gilbert’s eyes as the kid fell. Slipping through Roderichs fingertips in the rain. the fear there, in the red, the pleading, the want to not die. Roderich could see it. Could see it fade into reluctant acceptance the farther Gilbert fell, then the duck crunching thud of the boy's body crushing the roof of the car. The shrill scream of Elizabeta at the ground. For a moment all Roderich could do was stare, horror-struck in the cool rain, fixated on Gilbert’s crumpled body, breathing heavily, watching, waiting for the kid to spring up and laugh. It never came. He barely remembers holding a crying baby Ludwig to his chest, then Elizabeta to his shoulder, leaving them both to hold Gilbert’s cold wet hand again in the ambulance. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget those eyes.

* * *

The call cane in the middle of the night. Roderich was thereby morning with Elizabeta and baby Ludwig. He almost bursts out crying when he sees Gilbert proper up by pillows, eyes bleary, oxygen in his nose lazily trying to eat a morning meal specially prepared by the hospital. Roderich notes the considerable effort gilbert was putting into moving his arm to the spoon than to his mouth. Not paralyzed there at least. 

But that brings up the other issue, which is Roderich's response to the panic, “you! You! Do you have any idea- Gilbert Von Belshmit! You are in so much trouble!” He starts.

Of course, Gilbert offers a tired weak smile, and a raspy slurred, “I’m sorry, I love you” before promptly being swamped in a hug. Oh, there would be healing, and therapy, and talking it over soon enough. Roderich never wanted this to happen again. But for now? For now, a hug was enough.

  
  



	14. Laboratory 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fullmetal Alchemist Au, German bros centric, inhumane experiments

Gilbert has been lucky. The right place at the right time. As a gifted alchemist in his own right, it was his little brother that kept him from the Ishvalen front lines and instead placed him at laboratory 5 where his skills could be put to use. 

Those men were on death row after all. Not like Gilbert could go against orders. They were fighting a war, a war they needed to win that they were winning, at least that’s what The Fürher said. Now it was simply a matter of winning more quickly, of bringing our boys home in time for the holidays. It was a proof of concept anyway. Human transmutation was supposed to be impossible. But Gilbert May have found a way... maybe.

It was so easy to see The Truth.

It proved him right, it gave him the ability to transmute without a circle, it taught him how dangerous humans transmutation was. What that sort of sacrifice could give in terms of power. It was scary but enticing. It all made sense. He had walked through doors and opened new ones. Every path was open to him. He was riding through the ranks, on the cusp of greatness! Of the secrets, of power!

Then the war ended, and the soldiers came home, and they brought the plague with them. The plague was worse than anything. It took out swaths of the population. It was the worst in cities. Gilbert has always been sickly. Heinrich, no better. The only advantage Gilbert had was that he was older, tougher.

Elizabeta and Rodroch came to Central from the West for the funeral. It was dreary and drab an overhang of clouds, but no rain. The world moved on. Hardly anyone bats an eye at the death of another child. Hardly anyone but those directly affected. Roderich and Elizabeta stayed for a while, a week. A week that Gilbert locked himself away in his laboratory, hardly speaking, hardly eating. 

There were sparks in the night, and electricity arching through the room.

When Gilbert eventually shoved the door open, leaning exhausted and bleeding from the stump of his arm. Fog following him out. There was horror on the inside when Roderich went to investigate. The body of Heinrich laid on the table, breathing, sound asleep, and looking no less decomposed. Or dead. Like he was supposed to be.

Rodrich turned back to the blessing albino in horror, “Gilbert” he whispers, “what have you done?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little warped but I always had the thought of why couldn't the Alchemists just use the truth or the philosophers stone or both to bind a soul back into a human flesh body? So I played around with that thought! might do another of these might not, just like a day in the life sort of situation. ill Deffo do more if someone requests it though!


	15. One is the Loneliest number, but it likes it like that

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aph Massachusets centric, lonely, sad thoughts

Boston liked being alone. He did, tucked away in his little corner of the nation. Quietly minding his own business, going to college, getting degrees, learning whatever he can. Really! He did! The occasional visit from Rhody. The texting with Alfred and the other thirteen. It was nice, it was quiet. He liked being alone. Really. He did like it!

He liked it better than the overwhelming feeling that came within big crowds, with being talked over in meetings. With texts going unread for days. Really. He liked being alone better. He can at least pretend he chose to have his big colonial Boston house quiet all the time. The grandfather clock ticking in the upstairs hallway wouldn’t drive him crazy. No, never. Just him, and the grandfather clock and the cars on the street and the tv and the same music he always plays. Really, he’s fine. He can handle it. He can handle it.

“I can handle it” Boston mumbles, breathing slowly, buried under a blanket in the cold open kitchen island, a rare warm cup of tea in his hands, it’s dark. And he’s been in a spiral. A sleepless anxiety-filled night, the city was quiet, only the ticking of the grandfather clock distant in the dark, muffled. The Lonely crawling up his throat to choke him. His phone close, open to messenger, he didn’t know who to text. He didn’t have anyone to text. No one he wanted to bother. No one that would be up, to listen. Alfreds long asleep, Ginny too, Oscar probably hated him from the last fight over sports. Rhody might be up, Nikolo with her, but they're parents, they have stuff to do, can’t be bothered with his meltdown- “No. No, I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m fine. I don’t need to listen to me rant and cry an- ah- ah oohh boy. Okay. Easy there Marcus” Boston leans forward over the tea, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to breathe.

Boston liked being alone, he really did. The nation was so big he really had no choice, did he? He’s small. And alone. And they had bigger things to worry about. He fine, he’s fine.

He likes being alone.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I wasn't in the best space when I wrote this? its small and short and yes, his name is Marcus Boston Jones. sue me.  
> Anyway, I think the next one should be a little happier, don't you? yea, you guys have been put through enough sad for a little while, at least next week you deserve a reprieve!


	16. Fall Walks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Southern New England state centric, they're a good family, they worry about each other, are total weebs too.

“Does Boston tell you things?” Connecticut asks breaking the silence of their early autumn walk. 

Rhode Island hums, intently watching the movements her feet take. Satisfied with the crunch of a brown leaf under her step. “What sort of things do you think he’s telling me, Conner?”

Conner shrugs, flicking his head to toss dirty blonde perfectly trimmed bangs out of his eyes, fighting a kissing battle against the cool New England wind. “Like. You’ve seen his Insta. And got his drunk texts right? I’m worried he’s slipping back to his frat days again...” a heavy sigh, and fiddling with the zipper on the blazer, butting his lip. “Rhody... I’m worried about him.”

“You’ve been doing you’re Saturday night anime binge with him right?” Rhody asks, she’s smart and cut her bangs short for the windy season, even if they were still lopsided they stayed out of her eyes. The rest of her hair left to lash in the wind like fire. 

Conner huffs indignantly with a roll of his green eyes, “Yea, of course! And you’re always still invited.”

“Then I think he’s fine. Not like he’s going out every day. Just Friday” Rhody does her best to shrug, but with the motion of crunching another leaf with an uneven step, she nearly loses her balance.

Conner reaches out a hand to catch her and make sure she’s steady on two feet before saying: “Oh? Is he still going down to Oscar in New York Sunday-Monday?”

Huffing and fighting her jacket and pushing her hand behind her shoulder Rhody gives Conner a mock glare at his help and a curt nod, “Yea. And I hear Oz and Bos have started going to therapy too. So I think they’re good.”

“But Bos doesn’t text me randomly in the week anymore!” Conner complains with a whine. As much as he had batted Boston’s three am texts asking the strangest questions on a Wednesday when they both had 8 am classes he has to say he’s missed them in recent weeks.

A knowing tired look in steel blue eyes is what he gets from his sister though. “What Anime are you currently watching?” 

Conner did not expect his whine to be answered with a question. “Uuh. Attack on Titan. Why?”

Rhody points up. And Conner follows her finger. To a blur racing through the trees and breathless hoots and hollers of fun, a hiss of compressed air and cable before it stops suddenly when it swoops maybe a little too far low and a little too far to the right and hits a tree trunk then the ground ten feet in front of them.

Conner has to laugh at the whole thing, anxiety dashed for the moment. “B-Boston no! This is what you’ve been doing?!” He knows his brother is okay. It’s part of the deal of being a state. 

Boston’s first sound as he lays on the ground is the long drawn out whine of him trying to get his lungs to work again. “Fiiiiine” he calls out. Rhody's already bent over him disapprovingly, poking his stomach with the toe of her shoe. 

“I told you you should have been doing more lab tests first. You could barely control the web-shooters you made in '01, what makes you think this is any better?!” She scolds, maybe having spent to much time with Virginia as of late.

Conners still cackling in the background even more so at the scolding the little redhead is giving Boston. Who’s still trying to catch his breath, “Trial by fire dear sister” he rasps, finding his strength enough to sit up. “It’s how I roll.”

Boston gets a gentle smack on the head from that. Conner giggling now offers his hand to help the elder stand “so this is what you’ve been working on?” He can’t keep the merry time of laughter out of his voice.

“Uh-huh! Pretty cool right?” Boston beams though. Sea green eyes alight, our grown curls a wild windswept mess. Turning back and forth to let his siblings see the near-perfect recreation of the 3d maneuvering gear, “had to ad-lib a few things though. Hajime Isayama left out some things.”

Conner nods, marveling at the work Boston managed, he never doubts his brother's mechanical ability, just his common sense sometimes. Which reminds him.

_ Smack _

_ “ _ Ooooowowww! What was that for!” Boston whines hands quickly covering the area of his head Conner just hit.

“For worrying me, you idiot!!” Conner scolds, hands on his hips mirroring how Virginia would often scold them in their Youth, must be a habit they all picked up. “I thought you were relapsing when you weren’t texting me at three in the morning!”

Conner can see the gears behind Boston's eyes turning, and guilt taking over his hurt features, “...’m sorry... I was just working on this so I could surprise you. I didn’t mean to worry you”

The three of them let it sit in the cool fall afternoon. Wind tossing their hair, shaking leaves from the trees, and ripping through their jackets and shirts. “Fine” Conner huffs, there's no anger there anymore. All of it blown away with the wind, “make it up to me now then. Come on. Order some pizza. We still have a few episodes left before we’re all caught up”

Boston and Rhody's exchange looks, then nods. “Right! Yea. I can do that. The usual?” Boston asks spinning on his heel to walk with them back to Rhody's house. They usually meet in the smaller state. She’s between them after all. That’s how they walk to. Rhody sandwiched in the middle of the two taller boys.

Rhody’s turn to roll her eyes. “Duh. What else would we get? Something new? After sixty years as if!”

Conner laughs softly with them both. Finding the anxiety from early dashed away, stored safely in the back of hums mind for the next minor slip up to trigger, for now, he can simply enjoy the time spent with his siblings. They needed more of these days after all. It’s good for their health.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Promised happy didn't I?! is this happy? I don't know anymore. it's less sad at least!


	17. When Boats and Bridges Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Historical, Rhode Island, England, Alfred. The Burning of the Gaspee

The smell of fresh ocean air with an undertone of burnt wood drifted on the bay breeze into the cozy seaside house. A haze rested over Narragansett Bay and traces of the black smoke still lingered in the sky from the early morning rebellion. A presence of quiet victory was settled over the whole colony of Rhode Island as ships started coming in, careful of the charred wreckage, with their cargo intact and unrifled trough, unbothered by the red-coated menaces that have been patrolling the bay for the last few months.

In the house, basking in the quiet victory of the morning with a book in hand and lounging in the living room was the young personification of this colony, a one Rhoda Jones, not really paying attention to her book as she was listening to the faraway conversations of the people. She had had wonderful dreams of a menace running aground and her people boarding it, the warmth of flame licking at the terrible wood. Only to have woken up to her Lady's Maid with a newspaper telling her of the news that the Gaspee was run aground and burned in the night, and the Dudingston was severely injured in the attack. Rhoda, Rhody for short, knew what was coming for her. Already she could feel her caretakers furry just ten miles and billowing closer like a storm on the wind blowing down from Boston where he had been settled for a few years now dealing with their stubbornness.

“Lady?” her Lady's Maid, Molly, called from the doorway of the study, “You should get ready, one of your associates saw Sir Arthur resting his horse in Providence.”

Rhody hummed, marking her spot in her book and raising, straightening out her skirts as she stood, “Was there anyone with him? Alfred perhaps, or Marcus?”

“There was a second horse, but no other that your associate could see.”

“Then we shall see.” Rhody concluded, straight-faced and standing tall, “If I face Arthur alone then I shall. And I shall do it like a lady.”

Molly smiled, for a moment looking twenty years younger, “Well, you certainly have matured in the years under my care now haven't you?” she joked, following the young lady out of the room and towards her bedroom for a change of clothes.

Rhody laughed warm and light, suddenly all of the weight on her shoulders gone in a moment. “Yes, I suppose I have. Thank you, Molly. I appreciate all you have done for me.”

Molly, with motherly affection, leads the young colony up the stairs to change while the maids and the cooks readied the house for the guests to come with the dusk.

The road from Boston to Warwick had been a long ride for the nation and colony as they rounded a bend to come across the warmly lit seaside house. The smell of smoke still hanging in the hazy air.

“I doubt she gave the command to burn it Arthur,” Alfred- a young strapping lad of about nineteen- noted, in a vain attempt at denouncing his little sister of any real blame. He knew first hand what Arthur was like when he was mad, he had seen it in Boston with Marcus, and he loathed to see his cute, fiery-haired sister succumb to the same fate.

Arthur however, the very personification of the British empire, was seething, “This is the third time something like this has happened on her grounds Alfred. First, her people ransacked the  _ St John, _ then they burned the  _ Liberty  _ and now this? She needs to be put in her place, her people need to be put in their place.” he growled as the stable boy took their steeds and both men made their way to the door only to be received very cordially by the in house butler who met them with a bow and a request to take their coats and fetch any refreshments they needed while he brought the lady of the house to meet them in the Parlor as they waited for diner to be ready.

The wait, a long one to show disrespect, only made Arthur further steam with fury and Alfred worry more for his sisters well being before she finally glided in wearing an extravagant evening gown with a low collar to accentuate her growing maturity and sleeves that came down only to her elbows before opening up to wide loops, her hair was done up even, high and off for neck. She was beautiful. And looked the part of a lady in high standing. Rising to meet her, Alfred froze in his tracks and sat back down when Rhody raised a delicate, ungloved, hand to him, her expression as serious as the grave and eyes cold as winter ice. 

“I wish not to spoil dinner with bitter words left unsaid Arthur,” Rhody’s tone was far colder, far more collected than Alfred had expected it to be. He knew her, she was a firebrand, always quick to speak her mind regardless of who she was speaking to. This, this, demeanor she had, fine and cold and every bit the no-nonsense lady of the court she had never been was, albeit, terrifying to Alfred, even more so when he saw the real anger in the ice of her eyes. “If you wish to reprimand me for something I could not control then so be it. But let it be said, you will garner no victory nor satisfaction form verbally lashing me. That much I can promise.” the finality of which she said it with such a blank expression as she sat on the couch opposite them seemed to raise Arthur to the challenge.

Arthur, already mad, went red in the face, “Could not control? Like bloody hell, you couldn't control it! You know full well our people are affected by us and our emotions just as much as we are affected by them! If you didn't think of how much you bloody hated me then your people would not have burned two ships down and ransacked a third!” he was standing now, “All I ask is that you and yours pay your bloody taxes and obey the laws put in place. Nothing more. All of you are still British citizens, I don't see why that is so hard to comprehend.” he sighed.

Rhody, who had stayed impassive the whole rant finally spoke up. “I see why it is so hard for you to comprehend. It's simple really. For years you and yours have let us essentially govern ourselves. We came to this land to escape persecution of many forms, be it legal or religious. We have fought hard, we have staked a claim, we have built and grown on our own with little to no interference on anyone's part. And then in comes, you, strutting in hands bloodied and neck-deep in debt and eyeing us like the money makers we were always meant to be then demanding we pay you outrageous taxes we never agreed to pay for a war we barely even fought in and then punishing us when we demand fair representation for decisions in which affect us and-” she never got to finish what she was saying as her speech was cut off with a loud and strong slap that snapped her head to the side and had her holding her cheek.

It was Alfred's turn to leap to his feet again, charging straight for the British nation who was rearing again to give the redheaded colony another slap. With a bone-crushing grip, Alfred caught Arthur's hand and pushed him back against the wall. “That is enough!” he shouted to get Arthur's full attention if he did not have it already, “You have no right to just lash out and hit her like that! She was not posing a threat, she was not raising her voice, she was simply raising a fair point!”

For a moment Arthur's rolling grassy knoll like eyes flashed with hurt, then betrayal, before it was gone. Replaced again with anger as he pushed the boy he had raised away back toward his sister as she still held her bruised cheek, “You  _ agree with them?” _ he asked like the shriek of a wounded animal. 

Alfred, suddenly caught between loyalties had to pick a side, and in a split second made his choice. “Get out.” he growled, “We do not want you here Britain. I don’t want you coming near me or any of my colonies again. Now get out. Before I throw you out.” for extra emphasis he stood tall, puffing out his chest just a little to make himself tower over his former older brother. Arthur would never admit it but he knew when he had been beaten. So with a scowl and turned on his heel and snatched his coat from the butler and slamming the heavy oak door behind him.

The ruffling of fine cloth had Alfred turning around to face Rhody, still standing with her head tall and red-cheeked, no tears in her eyes but relief at what Alfred had done. “Thank you.” she started, “for coming, and for doing that. I would have thrown him out anyway, but I had not expected him to raise a hand to me quite so early. I am-”

“Hush sister,” again she was interrupted, but this time by Alfred's scrutiny of the quickly forming bruised cheek, tilting her head to better see the damage in the candlelight. “what you did was brave, and you and your people have always been outrageously self-asserting it is just how you are. You and Marcus are right. What Arthur is doing you you both is wrong on so many levels. But now we have to be careful. I feel as though we are on the precipice of something greater than ourselves” he warned

Rhody smiled, a quick-witted light returning to her ice-cold eyes and she batted Alfred's hand away, “No, Alfred, you’ve got it all wrong. Whatever comes next will make us into what we are supposed to become, or at least start us down the path. One more push from that Bastard and we will be well on our way.”

Alfred huffed in a failed attempt to brush away a smile. “And where does that path lead us now?”

“For now? It leads us to the dinner table.’ she sedes, taking his hand and leading him towards the wondrous smell of food. Her cheek red and black and white, the harbor still smelling of smoke and charred wood still floating in the bay. Down the road, Arthurs horse galloped as his temper simmered, ways of making these Brats fall into line already stewing in his head, and certainly in the ideas of his parliament now too. For fire spreads. This time from a boat called  _ the Gaspee  _ to a bridge between family members.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Historical context. 
> 
> The Burning of the Gaspee, or the Gaspee Incident happened in Warwick Rhode Island. it, and a few other boat burnings in direct opposition to the Intolerable Acts. The Gaspee incident happened after the Boston Massacre but nearly a year before the Boston Tea Party and is largely coined as some of the first violent acts of uprising against the British that moved the colonies towards the route of revolution. 
> 
> this is just a short historical context I don't want to burden you with a whole essay about it in the notes but if your interested do some light reading on it. Rhode Island has a lot of first that never really get taught to the general education system. its a fun read.


	18. The Bone Tired Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhode Island, Drugs, heroin addiction, Alfred, dealing with the drugs, highs and lows

There are days when Rhode Island couldn't get out of bed, and she knew that was bad. On those days she would wake up, her eyes, pretty and blue and faraway would flutter open lazily to squint at the noonday light seeping in through blackout shades she kept drawn over the west-facing windows. Her mind would be quiet and let her just listen. the old house creaked as it settled, in the summer the laughter of children playing on the street, free from school and the burdens it bears, uncaring for the weight of age and the knowledge of growing up, in the winter the harsh songs of cardinals and chickadees kept her company as she lay as still as she could, slim bony chest rising in slow menstruations, limbs dully throbbing, sniffle every now and again, a quiet reminder that she was getting worse. These were the good days

  
Bad days started with an itch, an itch that never really went away instead they just moving from place to place, forcing her to dig sharp unkempt nails into paper pale skin to get at the irritation buried underneath. Blood, thin and contaminated, and very very precious would dry under her nails and pool on her sheets, forcing her to stand on numb shaky legs. Knobby knees knocking together as she stumbled over used needles and old trash to replace the soiled bedding. The hallway to her bedroom on the way back with fresh bedding would be where she collapses again, hyperventilating and in tears, mind restless and racing and sluggish all the same with thoughts of failure, of how far she has fallen, of past power and half-remembered jokes and smiles of her family. Her hysteria bringing on nightmares of disappointed blue eyes pitied glances and cold loneliness consuming her. Her limbs burning all the while, veins damaged, and the after-effects of years and years seeming to meet her at ahead at this moment. The bad days would pass, however. Though in recent years they would get more and more frequent.

  
It was during one of these bad days that she, unfortunately, found herself away from her own home and in that of her older brother. America, Alfred, was a kind soul at heart though he could be forceful and ego-driven. He had asked Rhody over out of worry that she was drifting away, trying to fade into relative obscurity, and also for her health. She had been getting steadily more ill-looking since the thirties, and he knew that her infrastructure was bad, he knew that it was in the forefront of his mind some days, and others pushed aside for more pressing matters he would try to tackle. So he invited her over, brought her into his home in an effort to reconnect, find out what was wrong, and all she did was lock herself in her room hardly coming out to eat. He was more than just a little concerned now. Rhody knew that, knew that she should probably tell her brother what was wrong, or at the very least try to put up an act of being okay but that was work, and she was so tired and it hurt to breathe, it hurt to move.

  
“Rhody?” The call so quiet and unusual from her brother was nearly drowned by the knock he gave at her door. Finally fed up with her elusiveness to the point that he was reaching out first.

  
“Yea? What?” Came Rhody's short reply. To lost in her itching, to lost in a daze, in a want to make another dose but not having the energy to physically get up and make one. Besides, Alfred's presence was just too loud, too overwhelming, even from a distance, she needed the silence that came with him gone.

  
Though his silence never came, neither did the noise that usually accompanied him. Instead, his presence brought a noise that was distant, quiet but altogether too loud. “I just wanted to know if you were alright? You haven’t been coming down to eat and you barely come out of your room and when I do see you you kinda look like a zombie. I’m starting to worry for ya sis, like, if ya need your space that’s fine, I get it, but you can talk to me too, ya know? If there’s anything, anything at all that’s bothering you, you can tell me….. please tell me….. okay?”

  
Somewhere, hidden deep behind the addiction, a small part of Rhoda, the part that still remembered laughter and independence and warmth, that part of Rhody, long thought dead shattered in guilt, in shame. Alfred should not sound like that, he should not sound so small, so tired, so uncertain. He was America damn it, that’s not how he was supposed to be! ‘You did this,’ that small spiteful part of her sneered in her thoughts,’ he’s worried about his junkie sister when the worlds hounding him for everything under the sun. And you’re so hopped up that you hardly have the capacity to care. Some piece of shit you are.’

  
Pulling the pillow tight over her head Rhody curbed into herself as much as she could. Knobby knees bumped into her pointed chin, tears she had thought long since dried surging forward as she hissed and choked back a sob that rose and tore at her throat. To absorbed in staying perfectly maintained, perfectly fine, that she did not hear Alfred turn the doorknob once, hesitate, then footsteps muffled in the carpet. “Tomorrow I tell him everything,” Rhody promised to nothing through tears, nails grabbing at her arm, sore and numb and heavy as all her limbs where. Blood seeping from new cuts out of thin veins, quick to form scabs, “tomorrow I quit.” She decided, what little of her resolve building then cracking, the falling to prices as she rose like made of rust and Ill fitted joints and grabbed for a needle and her stash.

  
“One last hit to make it through the night.” She reasoned, hands shaking from the low, from the exhaustion buried deep in her bones. “Just one more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heavy topic I know, this one came from like, my semester in collage when I was taking drugs and substance abuse as a class and got inspired and made some of my saddest parts of Rhode Islands backstory, don't worry it gets better I promise! less drugs, more just sad. angst is my fav if you couldn't tell. and I am very sorry bit no sex. I don't like sex, sex will never be part of my stories, but the relationship is still there.   
> As always kudos and comments are very much appreciated!  
> Thank you all!

**Author's Note:**

> Nations and Hetalia belong to Hidekaz Himaruya
> 
> Hawaii/Nikolo, Texas/Dallas, New York/Oscar and Virginia belong to [doodle-famous](https://doodle-famous.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I do requests too! if there is ever an AU, characters, or scenes you want to see you can message me in the comments or directly into the inbox!


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